And the hero will drown
by fantasticalfailure
Summary: Post X3: The Professor never told them about it, only Storm. Now it's missing, and in the wrong hands could destroy the universe. All the mutant powers, condensed in one ball of energy. God forbid it find its way into a human being...
1. Chapter 1

"Although it is quite useful, to be able to teleport one another on command, there are some… negative outcomes. For example, if Nightcrawler wanted to transport he and Kitty to… lets say, the West Wing of the school, and he did not concentrate hard enough, their bodies would—."

"I'm sorry, Professor Storm?"

"Yes?"

"Wolverine would like to see you. He says it's urgent."

Professor Xavier's office never saw a change since his death, and for that there were reasons. Ororo had been dubbed by Logan as the new head of the school, and no one seemed in opposition to Logan… or the fact that Ororo was the most capable out of all of them to organize and corroborate. Once her "official" appointing commenced, though, Storm barked at Kitty when she picked up one of the Professor's magiked pendulums from his desk. It had been decreed after that, that the Professor's stuff was not to be touched, removed, harmed, or relocated in any fashion. Storm held so steadfast on her mandate that even when Logan tried to wipe the dust off one of the cabinets, she electrocuted him to the other end of the Mansion.

It stood especially odd, then, when Ororo walked into the office, to see that everything looked aloof. Desks were slid half way across the room, and useless trinkets scattered across the bare hardwood floor. Gasping in horror, and somewhat anger, Ororo's head whipped around the room until it landed on exactly what she expected to see. A mane of brown and black.

"LOGAN! WHAT IN THE HELL HAVE YOU DONE!" Storm screeched as her eyeballs slowly turned white.

"Somebody found it. Somebody let it go, Storm. We're fucked." Wolverine's deep, guttural timbre echoed a worry Storm had never known from this man before.

"What?" She asked, hollow. Logan shifted uncomfortably and let the question linger a minute longer than Storm could bear until he snapped out of nowhere. "He told you about it, didn't he? The Professor told you about it. The bastard kept it from me, and from Scott, even from Jean for Chrissake! … But you, he told you!" Pointed claws started their ascension from Wolverine's knuckles as he made fists to contort his rage into something tangible. Something penetrable – something Jean would have been able to read right off his unspoken, un-parted lips. Something the Professor would have sensed a mile away; something even Scott could have seen under those sunglasses. But not Ororo; no, not Storm. That was her discrepancy, her downfall. She was blind to what the others were not.

"Wolverine—Logan, look, I have no clue what you're talking about." Her voice was tentative, on the verge of a whisper.

"Why did he do it? I want to know why," Wolverine growled, "did he think he could make some sort of… some sort of Super X-Man? What the fuck was that old man thinking… what the f…" He stopped, only to retract his claws, "Just stop playing stupid with me Storm. It's gone anyhow, so there's no point in you denying its existence, or defending its right to exist. Just tell me why and how."

Storm gave a wan smile and took a small step back. Of course she knew what he was talking about, and she could tell finally from the violent red of his face that… that it really _was_ missing, but a small part of Ororo refused to give in so easy. The Professor had trusted her with this secret to such an extent that he asked if she would be willing to spare her life for it, if necessary.

Alas, wolves can smell fear, and deception. Logan's nose caught on like wild fire, and he flew at Storm with such force that it knocked her over the couch—the same couch she used to sit on while the Professor attempted to calm her raging thoughts as the room buzzed with snow and sleet. Yes… Ororo was like them once, too. She could not control her powers as well… No, they are not alone.

"Tell me, bitch," Wolverine spat, his cruel words singing Storm's pride as she reflected that Logan—the one she knew, would _never_ call her that. Her lips trembled in response, and only after Wolverine clasped her forearms so hard that it left bruises, and shook her until she felt disoriented, did Storm's mouth cave and start speaking at will.

"It was after you first arrived, when you were still in our room for testing. The Professor had been building on the idea since he first created the school. Every mutant he acquired, he would instruct me to take a small sample of their blood—their DNA, and store it in a vial. He never let Jean Gray do this because he knew… he knew that her moral obligations would get in the way. Professor Xavier said that I was a scientist, and I understood him, whereas Jean was more of the humanitarian type," pausing to smile half-heartedly, the left side of Storm's lip twitched upward in bitter reminiscence, "Until one day, when I had a vile for close to every mutation we had seen, the Professor asked me to poor the vials all into a larger capsule, and give it to him in Cerebro. I did, but oh listen to me will you?" Storm finally acknowledged the unrest in Wolverine's dubious glare.

Pushing upwards, she forced him off and stood upright before continuing. "The whole thing seemed so harmless, and it was. It is! Well… actually, that all depends on what you told me when I first walked in here." Storm's face melted into a stoic expression as it was her this time to grab a hold of Wolverine's shoulders and force him into the arm of the couch. "What do you mean, somebody found it? Somebody let it go… what the hell does that mean?" Her eyes went from shocking blue to a milky white, as her neck craned to the side gently.

"I mean somebody broke into that stupid room the Professor made, and took the capsule. They TOOK IT, and they left the fucking paperwork behind!" Logan snapped, and his claws sliced out between the rivets of his knuckles; he felt wholly like Wolverine in that instant. In front of him, just inches away, their breaths intermingled and the taste of dread growing steadily, Storm's eyes dissolved into a color unknown to her. A color that reflected horror.

"Oh my god Logan. We're fucked."

Now it was her turn to swear.


	2. Changes

Back in the classroom, the one where Professor Storm had just been lecturing minutes earlier, silence fell upon the students. Not one of them dared even flinch out of fear that this was a test; a test of their obedience. After the Professor's death, everybody was on their toes, and even the youngest students were prepared for instant battle. It would only be common knowledge to assume that Wolverine was setting them up, seeing what they would do if the classroom were to be attacked without a teacher. For this reason, Bobby, who sat in the farthest back right corner, straightened up in his chair and cleared his throat.

Kitty shot him a reproachful glance from the seat at his side.

"Alright listen up everybody," Bobby's tentative voice barely stretched above a whisper; but it was enough to grab the attention of the entire muted class. Surprised by this, Bobby shifted uncomfortably as he desperately searched for the right words to say. "The Professor just had to… to go take care of some business, but that doesn't mean there's a problem or anything." Cracking a wan smile, Bobby slowly stood up, maneuvering around the desk so he could walk to the front.

Just in that moment, Storm appeared at the door, her face ghastly white; it almost matched her hair. "Bobby," she said calmly, "you can go sit down now."

Worried that he had done something to anger her without knowing, Bobby just nodded quickly and shuffled back to his seat. Kitty watched him all the way, and offered a small grin to slow his racing heart. It didn't work, though; only Rogue could do that.

"Class," Storm began suddenly, and this snapped the imaginary cord between Kitty and Bobby as both their heads whipped to the front of the room. "There's been… a change in plans today. You are all free to go, on the grounds that you don't leave this mansion. That means no courtyard, no front lawn, no woods, no nothing. In fact, it would be best if you all just piled into one of the recreational rooms and sat tight until Logan and I can—." She paused, blanching, "… sort some things out."

An eruption of murmurs amplified through the classroom, but Storm was too concentrated on her last words with Logan minutes earlier to quiet them down. The vial, the one that held possibly the most powerful—and most dangerous mutation ever, was missing. Anyone could have taken it; from Magneto to some other new sick-o that has decided to follow in the footsteps of defiance and hate humans with every ounce of his (or perhaps her) mutated being.

Just as Kitty approached Storm with a bewildered expression on her face, clearly about to inquire something of dire importance, Ororo turned herself away and walked briskly towards the door, leaving with only a quick, loud explanation, "Go to your rooms."

That was the last time any of the students saw Ororo that day.

"Nobody wants you here. Get out now, freak!"

Angry mob shouts echoed through the usually barren bar on 25th and Hyland St., as beer bottles went flying in the air. It had been a stupid mistake for John to think he could saunter into a club filled with homo sapiens and walk out alive after torching their wine rack. Still, Pyro never learned these sorts of obvious truths.

The words they screamed at him, the derogatory insults that left holes so deep in one's pride that they didn't even show at all, went in one ear and out Pyro's right and left hands. He was on a roll now, and if any human thought they could stand in the way, then he'd give them a show like they've never seen before. Red flames were already dancing around him, their bright yellow and orange curvatures hugging the shape of his immortalized body, as it emanated pure malice. Those who dare linger their gaze on his ethereal, towering figure bit back in fear that John only fed off of.

This was why he joined Magneto; this eternal terror that was evoked just by his presence. Let them scream and cower in anguish, John seethed on the inside, let them bark blind with rage so that they may feel what it is like to posses true wrath.

Poetic words in morbid imagery were not something the old John would do, but Pyro had learned that with every sin comes a virtue. Who's to say he cannot be a philosophe _and_ part of the Brotherhood?

Just as the crowd around him seemed to be dispersing, Pyro heard a distant yelp penetrate the chaos. It was not a cry of pain, though, or fear; it was a cry of distinct defiance. Something John knew only to come from other mutants—in his direction at least. For what kind of idiotic human would challenge a kid that can manipulate fire?

"STOP. STOP IT." He finally was able to decipher through all the surrounding panic-stricken screaming. It was a female's voice, but it showed no signs of the typical yielding invoked by a show of Pyro's techniques. She was probably some stupid, self-righteous feminist that wasn't scared of mutants only out of ignorance, John thought vehemently. Time to teach her a lesson, then. If the little bitch didn't shave her legs already, he'd scorch the hair right off.

If there was one thing John hated more than the X-Men, more than homo sapiens, it was feminists.

But once the figure emerged, clearly having little to no difficulty forcing their way through the crowd, John blanched. This girl, this insolent human being, was no feminist at all. In fact, she seemed familiar; very familiar, and in a way that Pyro was not warming up to. His stomach did a flip at first glance of her face, but one that derived itself from past pretence, and John _never_ dwelled on his past.

"What the hell did you say to me?" John covered his momentary digression by backing up his strong voice with a growl.

"I told you to stop, now quit being a pussy and put your stupid hands down to fight like a real fucking man. Isn't that what you are, John? Or is that just what your stupid little friend told you? You know, I wouldn't trust a guy who walks around in a black cape and a helmet that looks like a coffee pot. Might be a bit off in the head, you know." The girl was now smirking, her words threatening Pryo's pride. Fight like a real man? He WAS a real man! No—he was a mutant. A real mutant.

But how did she know about Magneto? How did she know his name, his _old_ name?

"You talk pretty big for a human, and that coffee pot is the reason he could tear this entire city up from the ground. The black cape's just for theatrics." Now it was Pyro's turn to smirk, as he took three ominous steps forward.

Still standing her ground, John's words adding new anger in her eyes, the girl curled her hands into fists and mimicked Pyro's steps. "You don't scare me," her words were simple enough, almost said in a whisper, but somehow John heard them over the surrounding racket, "because I know who you really are."

"Is THAT your big punch line?" John cackled, relieved that it was only another whack job who knew him probably from some foster home or another, and decided to take blind revenge (he'd been dealing with a lot of those lately—all of which who's funerals he _did_ make a genuine point to attend). "Sorry to burst your anger bubble honey, but a lot of people 'know who I really am'. Now prepare to die."

Lifting his hands up in the air, christening himself in some ways like the hands of God, Pyro's eyes glinted malevolently. And in three, two, one…

Rogue sat in the corner of the danger room, panting and sweat dripping off every part of her _exposed_ skin.

Skin….

She was wearing spandex shorts and a black tank-top; the most skin Rogue had shown since that day in her room, when she kissed…

Cutting her thoughts short, Rogue jumped to her feet. She had been sheltering herself away from the rest of the X-Men since Xavier's death, and since her… powers were now gone. The only way she knew how to repent herself, then, was to practice in the danger room. If she couldn't kill people with one touch, she'd sure as hell try with a couple kicks. Just as she reached for a button by the wall to start up the simulation again, a sharp pain shot through her right thigh. Taking in jagged breaths, Rogue bit her lip to keep from yelping.

"Fuck," she cursed darkly, bending down just a little to subdue the pain. The only simulations she could even think of using were Wolverine's, since everyone else's required some sort of mutant talent, and well—Rogue couldn't exactly regenerate herself or extract bullet holes from her forehead with just a grunt, so the danger room was proving to hurt her more than help.

If she could just stand up… if she could just keep the pain underneath for a bit longer… if she could just finish this one simulation…

That was how it had been since the Professor died; Rogue pushed herself and pushed herself until she woke up every morning in the medi-lab. The pain hardly mattered, though. In Rogue's eyes, it was a form of punishment for betraying the Professor, for giving in to her selfishness…

Why had she taken the cure? Logan had asked her, before leaving, if it was something _she_ wanted, and not just a cheap trick to get someone else (coughBobbycough), but Rogue stupidly believed taking the cure was for her. She could touch again; she could feel the warm embrace of another human being! Rogue swore under her breath at the thought now, crouched by a wall to sustain her balance in the danger room, looking mutinous. The first time someone had touched her, brushed up against her bare shoulder, it was scarier than standing up on that giant metal concave with Magneto's face hovering over her. Rogue expected a thrill, expected to feel something foreboding but exhilarating in its wrongness; and to think, all that from a bump of shoulders.

Imagine what a kiss would feel like… a kiss from Bobby…

But he had neglected her. Nothing was enough; no matter how many times she reached for his hand, or tried to stroke his face, he would pull away. The only person Bobby wanted to touch, it seemed, disappeared through walls before he got the chance. Rogue knew she shouldn't have felt resentment for Kitty, but it was inevitable. I mean, try keeping good terms with a girl that (involuntarily) steals your first love. The fact that it wasn't even on purpose just adds insult to injury!

Rogue did not take insult well, and she'd be damned if she ever nursed her injured pride. You harm a thing like that and Rogue lets _you_ do the nursing, of your own physical wounds.

Just as she felt ready to balance on herself, warm liquid spilled over the free hand that touched the wound momentarily. This time not able to hinder herself, Rogue gasped in pain and fell over, her shoulder hitting hard against the metal floor of the danger room.

Metal… Erik… he was trying to manipulate her thoughts again. No—or was that her simply dreaming? Rogue's powers were gone… she didn't have his memories anymore, or any of her victims for that matter… Then why did she keep having their dreams? Keep seeing flashes of some concentration camp, waking up with bruises and welts from being beaten in places like her back, and her arms.

"Aw shit…" Rogue murmured, as she felt her vision getting blurry. She didn't have to be a genius to know a pool of blood was forming beside her right tight. How would she explain _that_ to Dr. McCoy?


End file.
